In which our heroine confesses that she's discouraged, disorganized, and exhibiting few signs of self control
Wednesday morning. No more writing last night, so I'm still at about 5,800 words. I'm not sure why, but I just didn't feel like it, either last night or this morning. I even got up early, thinking I'd get a few thousand cranked out, but, well, it didn't happen. I think part of the problem is that I'm so displeased with the plot(s) right now that my mind is tossing around all of the editing that I need. I know that I can't delete a bunch of stuff right now because of the word count but it seems to be blocking me from moving forward. I might just have to cut and paste everything I don't want to keep down to the end of the document and then keep going. That would allow me to keep the word count (I mean, I did write it, it's just superfluous) without stressing about how bad it is and trying to wrap that/those plot lines up somehow. I've got a choral concert to attend tonight, so it will probably be tomorrow morning before I do anything about this.
I'm feeling strangely ambivalent about my life and myself right now. On the one hand, I'm writing a novel, something I've always secretly wanted to do. No matter that it's pretty much unreadable, I'm doing it and that's the important thing. On the other, I'm eating everything in sight, unrepentantly, and I haven't walked since before the fires started (around 10/24, I think). Yikes!
The walking thing, I think, is that I'm scared. I know, it sounds lame, but I'm actually scared to start back up. It's as though there's some sort of scary thing out there waiting for me if I step back on the treadmill. (I told you it sounded lame, didn't I? I wouldn't lie to you!) There is also something about it which is tied to the whole eating thing, too, and that gets a whole lot more complicated.
Eating, and, consequently, being fat, have always been a little bit of a security blanket/comfort thing for me. It's all about using the extra weight as insulation from the world and eating so that I can block unpleasant thoughts from my head. Weird, psycho stuff for sure. Anyway, the fire and my car being broken into really threw me, more so than I had previously suspected. My sense of well being and invincibility (as misguided as those feelings are) has been totally shredded and I feel as though I'm hurtling through space with nothing to grab on to in order to stop. Perhaps if I weren't such a damned perfectionist, demanding either complete and utter exactitude in my diet and exercise or absolutely no attempt at being healthy at all, this latest development wouldn't have me in such a nosedive? I don't know. What I do know is that I'm waking up every few hours to go to the bathroom, my feet are starting to tingle and hurt, the skin on my face is getting dry and flaky in patches, and I feel nauseated when I wake up in the morning...all classic symptoms, for me, of out of control diabetes. And yet, she says with a great deal of frustration, I don't seem to be doing anything to turn that around. Which leads to...
I am so ashamed of myself for my lack of self control. Here I've sent out all of these letters telling people that I'm going to do the LA Marathon and asking for donations to the American Diabetes Association (which you can still get in on, if you're interested...just click on my name underneath this post and it will open up a mail window with my email address) in consideration of that achievement. How totally humiliating if I can't pull this together! Grrr. Arrrgh. Damnit.
It's been sort of a frustrating day. Perhaps I ought not have posted at all, or left it at the NaNo discussion. Ah well, I've never claimed to be wise.